Daddy's Girl Part 40

Ogilvie within the cab, however, saw nothing. He was only conscious of the fact that he was drawing nearer and nearer to the house where his little daughter--but did his little daughter still live? Was Sibyl alive? That was the thought of all thoughts, the desire of all desires, which must soon be answered yea or nay.

When the tired-out and stricken man heard the strains of the band, he did rouse himself, however, and began dimly to wonder if, after all, he had come to the wrong house. Were there two houses called Silverbel, and had the man taken him to the wrong one? He pulled up the cab to inquire.

"No, sir," replied the driver, "it's all right. There ain't but one place named Silverbel here, and this is the place, sir. The lady is giving a big bazaar and her name is Mrs. Ogilvie."

"Then Sibyl must have got well again," thought Ogilvie to himself. And just for an instant the heavy weight at his breast seemed to lift. He paid his fare, told the man to take his luggage round to the back entrance, and jumped out of the cab.

The man obeyed him, and Ogilvie, just as he was, stepped across the lawn. He had the air of one who was neither a visitor nor yet a stranger. He walked with quick, short strides straight before him and presently he came full upon his wife in her silvery dress. A large white hat trimmed with pink roses reposed on her head. There were nature's own pink roses on her cheeks and smiles in her eyes.

"Oh, Phil!" she cried, with a little start. She was quite clever enough to hide her secret dismay at his arriving thus, and at such a moment. She dropped some things she was carrying and ran toward him with her pretty hands outstretched.

"Why, Phil!" she said again. "Oh, you naughty man, so you have come back. But why didn't you send me a telegram?"

"I had not time, Mildred; I thought my own presence was best. How is the child?"

"Oh, much the same--I mean she is going on quite, _quite_ nicely."

"And what is this?"

Ogilvie motioned with his hand as he spoke in the direction of the crowd of people, the marquee, and the band. The music of the band seemed to get on his brain and hurt him.

"What is all this?" he repeated.

"My dear Phil, my dear unpractical husband, this is a bazaar! Have you never heard of a bazaar before? A bazaar for the Cottage Hospital at Watleigh, the Home for Incurables; such a useful charity, Phil, and so much needed. The poor things are wanting funds dreadfully; they have got into debt, and something must be done to relieve them Think of all the dear little children in those wards, Phil; the Sisters have been obliged to refuse several cases lately. It is most pathetic, isn't it?

Oh, by the way, Lord Grayleigh is here; you will be glad to see him?"

"Presently, not now. How did you say Sibyl was?"

"I told you a moment ago. You can go and see her when you have changed your things. I wish you would go away at once to your room and get into some other clothes. There are no end of people you ought to meet.

How strange you look, Phil."

"I want to know more of Sibyl." Here the husband caught the wife's dainty wrist and drew her a little aside. "No matter about other things at present," he said sternly. "How is Sibyl? Remember, I have heard no particulars; I have heard nothing since I got your cable. How is she? Is there much the matter?"

"Well, I really don't think there is, but perhaps Lady Helen will tell you. Shall I send her to you? I really am so busy just now. You know I am selling, myself, at the princ.i.p.al stall. Oh, do go into the house, you naughty dear; do go to your own room and change your things! I expected you early this morning, and Watson has put out some of your wardrobe. Watson will attend on you if you will ring for him. You will find there is a special dressing room for you on the first floor. Go, dear, do."

But Ogilvie now hold both her hands. His own were not too clean; they were soiled by the dust of his rapid journey. He gripped her wrists tightly.

"_Where_ is the child?" he repeated again.

"Don't look at me like that, you quite frighten me. The child, she is in her room; she is going on nicely."

"But is she injured? Can she walk?"

"What could you expect? She cannot walk yet, but she is getting better gradually--at least, I think so."

"What you think is nothing, less than nothing. What do the doctors say?"

As Ogilvie was speaking he drew his wife gradually but surely away from the fashionably dressed people and the big-wigs who were too polite to stare, but who were all the time devoured with curiosity. It began to be whispered in the crowd that Ogilvie had returned, and that his wife and he were looking at certain matters from different points of view. There were several men and women present, who, although they encouraged Mrs. Ogilvie to have the bazaar, nevertheless thought her a heartless woman, and these people now were rather rejoicing in Ogilvie's att.i.tude. He did not look like a person who could be trifled with. He drew his wife toward the shrubbery.

"I will see the child in a minute," he said; "nothing else matters.

She is ill, unable to walk, lying down. I want to hear full particulars. If you will not tell them to me, I will send for the doctor. The question I wish answered is this, _what do the doctors say_?"

Tears filled Mrs. Ogilvie's pretty, dark eyes.

"Really, Phil, you are too cruel. After these weeks of anxiety, which only a mother can understand, you speak to me in that tone, just as if the dear little creature were nothing to me at all."

"You can cry, Mildred, as much as you please, and you can talk all the sentimental stuff that best appeals to you, but answer my question now. What do the doctors say, and what doctors has she seen?"

"The local doctor here, our own special doctor in town, and the great specialist, Sir Henry Powell."

"Good G.o.d, that man!" said Ogilvie, starting back. "Then she must have been badly hurt?"

"She was badly hurt."

"Well, what did the doctors say? Give me their verdict. I insist upon knowing."

"They--they--of course, they are wrong, Phil. You are hurting me; I wish you would not hold my hands so tightly."

"Speak!" was his only response.

"They said at the time--of course they were mistaken, doctors often are. You cannot imagine how many diagnoses of theirs have been proved to be wrong. Yes, I learned that queer word; I did not understand it at first. Now I know all about it."

"Speak!" This one expression came from Ogilvie's lips almost with a hiss.

"Well, they said at the time that--oh, Phil, you kill me when you look at me like that! They said the case was----"

"Hopeless?" asked the man between his white lips.

"They certainly _said_ it. But, Phil; oh, Phil, dear, they are wrong!"

He let her hands go with a sudden jerk. She almost fell.

"You knew it, and you could have that going on?" he said. "Go back to your bazaar."

"I certainly will. I think you are terribly unkind."

"You can have those people here, and that band playing, when you know _that_? Well, if such scenes give you pleasure at such a time, go and enjoy them."

He strode into the house. She looked after his retreating figure; then she took out her daintily laced handkerchief, applied it to her eyes, and went back to her duties.

"I am a martyr in a good cause," she said to herself; "but it is bitterly hard when one's husband does not understand one."

CHAPTER XIX.